Her Lonely Angel
by rainbow-washed-greyscale
Summary: Reinette's daughter, Fanfan finds her mother's last letter to the Doctor, and becomes determined to find out as much as she can. Slight 10/Reinette to come.


_Author's Note: For the readers unfamiliar with miscellaneous bits of French history, Mme De Pompadour (Reinette to most Doctor Who fans) had a daughter. Her name was Alexandrine-Jeanne d'Étiolles, called Fanfan by her family. A rather unfortunate nickname, in my opinion, but it __was__ France… At age 6, she was sent to the convent of the Assumption in the rue Saint-Honoré in Paris, and was betrothed at age 8. Sadly, she died about a month before her 10__th__ birthday. My digression is ended. Enjoy! -R.W.G._

**Her Lonely Angel**

Fanfan was bored. What was an eight-year-old to do? She was stuck at a convent, for Christ's sake, but she didn't want to study. Looking lazily around her room, she saw the usual accoutrements; an old dresser, a chair tucked in at a desk, a spindly lamp, her book bag leaning against a wall, never anything new. She was just sitting on her bed, drumming her fingers on her knee, which she found herself doing all too often.

Reaching under her bed, Fanfan groped for her shoes. She was determined not to just sit around doing nothing. It was sunny outside, but still cold. February was like that. She adamantly refused to waste the sunshine.

A puzzled expression emerged on her face. Only one shoe was where it ought to be. Fanfan hopped off her bed and bent down onto hands and knees, and peered under her bed. It was quite dusty, but after a violent coughing fit, she found the rogue shoe. She was about to stand up and put the shoes on, but something else had caught her eye.

The reunited shoes were tossed aside as Fanfan wriggled forward, stretching her small arms toward an old, nondescript hatbox. The mysterious box was finally retrieved, but at the cost of her tights. Squirming about on the rough floorboards of her room had created numerous runs and snags. Luckily, these weren't new tights, so her eight-year old conscience wasn't worried. The most punishment she'd receive would be a scolding from one of the sisters.

Fanfan pulled the hatbox up onto her bed, and plunked herself down next to it. More dust arose as she removed the lid. What she expected to find, she wasn't sure, but she was slightly disappointed at the contents. She stared down at a pile of old papers, bottles of ink, envelopes, just useless junk, really. With less enthusiasm than she'd possessed before, Fanfan began to sort through the heap of paper inside the round box.

Fifteen minutes later, Fanfan was ready to give up. She was coated to the elbows in a thin film of dust, but she'd yet to find something interesting. Standing up with a frustrated sigh, she marched over to her carelessly thrown aside shoes, and picked them up. She made her way back to her bed, kicked a pile of miscellaneous papers off her bed, and was about to sit down to put the shoes on. That is, until she saw the faintest hint of messy, yet elegant black script on one of the slightly yellowed pages.

The shoes went flying through the air once again as Fanfan bent to scoop up the mysterious page. The handwriting was vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place the feeling. She could tell this letter; the format indicating it was a letter; had been written in haste. Fanfan struggled to make out the spiky scrawl, but she could only read a few words here and there.

One word stood out to her. She could read it clearly; the name at the end of the letter— Reinette. Something poked at her from the back of her mind, telling her she ought to know the name. Someone, at some time, had mentioned the name Reinette to her. After a few moments more, it hit her. Reinette was her mother's name; nickname, really. Her mother had written this letter.

She scrutinized the heading of the letter, and it appeared to be dated 1763. That couldn't be right, she knew. It was only 1752, yet this letter was dated 11 years in the future. She must've read it wrong. No matter how many times she reread the date, she kept coming up with the same date— 1763.

Her curiosity now controlling her actions, Fanfan folded the letter up carefully and tucked it under her chin as she scrabbled to pull her shoes on. Shoes on, Fanfan tugged on her coat as she dashed out the door, plucking the letter from under her chin. She managed to stuff it in her pocket as the door thudded shut behind her.


End file.
